


Survival Cooking 101

by nodere



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Heith - Freeform, M/M, The YouTube Cooking AU nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodere/pseuds/nodere
Summary: Wherein food brings people together.YouTube gourmand, CookingWithTheHunk, finds a parody channel dedicated to recreating his recipes survival style.





	Survival Cooking 101

**Author's Note:**

> Season 7 finally gave me the Hunk and Keith content I’ve wanted since S1. Please, VLD, let me have more! 
> 
> I just wanted to write something fun, so here it is.

Hunk stared rapt at the screen. The video was deliberately anachronistic, like something straight out of the 1980s, recorded direct to VHS with a rented camcorder then tossed into a box and lost to time in an attic for thirty-some-odd years before being rediscovered, converted to a digital format, then uploaded to YouTube. Static occasionally cut through the picture in rows, and the voices constantly shifted pitch from some unidentifiable sound distortion. If he hadn’t caught glimpses of an older model iPhone and a banged up laptop, he might have bought into it.

All of that was only part of the charm that kept him watching.

The man in the video held up a sealed foil bag and set it beside the other items on the milk carton. His face never appeared on-screen, an editorial decision kept his head permanently and inconveniently cropped out of the picture frame, yet he remained the star of this strange fiasco. “Alright,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “We’ve got half a Pop Tart, a bag of microwave popcorn, mushrooms-”

“Where did those come from?” the videographer asked. Hunk thought he recognized the voice, despite the garbled sound from behind the microphone, but he couldn’t place it.

“Over there,” the man gestured to somewhere off in the distance, toward the open desert. He always looked like he’d just returned from some adventure, his unkempt hair curling haphazardly out at his shoulders, his clothing clinging to his trim, athletic build with a film of sweat and a layer of dust. The landscape had a soul, and he was a part of it. He wore the same outfit every episode: a plain, dark gray t-shirt with fitted jeans slung low on his hips, held up with a belt that had seen better days and a simple brass buckle with a large red star. His boots had seen better days, old with cracked leather, the laces tied tight around his calves.

“Oh hey!” His voice lit up excitedly as he slipped a dagger from the sheath at his back. With one smooth motion, he threw it expertly toward someplace off-screen as the camera swung around, struggling to catch up.

The blade hit its target with a soft thud, and a moment later, the scene cut to the kill. The man held a lizard up to the camera, maybe a foot in length, it didn’t look like much. “Guess we found a bite of protein after all!”

Hunk jumped when someone knocked on the open door, recalled to the present and his comfortable air-conditioned condo.

“You still watching that garbage?” Lance asked, leaning back against the frame, stretching his long limbs in languid repose.

“Yeah, man. This guy’s amazing!”

Groaning, Lance smacked his palm to his forehead and dragged his hand down his face in exasperation. “He’s totally ripping you off.”

Hunk stared at him. “No, he’s not. He says right at the beginning, my cooking show is his inspiration. _I’m_ his inspiration! Me!”

“He’s butchering your recipes with snack food and wildlife. He’s just out for views and subscribers.”

“Uh, Lance, he lives in a trailer in the desert and doesn’t even show his face, how is that-” He stopped. It wasn’t much of a defense, but Hunk admired the man’s resourcefulness. “Have you ever even watched an episode? His knife technique-”

“Ugh!” Lance rolled his eyes and turned to saunter away. “I don’t want to know.”

Hunk shrugged. He hadn’t been this entertained by a food channel on YouTube in a long time. Survivalist Cooking 101 gave him that, with a genuine homage to his own program. The strange meals were creative, if questionably edible. DesertRose84, whoever he was, combined real-life survival skills with an undeniable love of cooking. His charming eagerness and a certain panache kept Hunk plastered to the screen; he had never felt more flattered.

Or fascinated, probably.

He turned back to the screen to finish the episode with an almost morbid curiosity.

Over a small campfire, DesertRose84 tossed the meager shreds of sautéed meat in his single frying pan that looked as if it had not only spent a tired lifetime of servitude preparing food for families decade after decade, but had at some point been run over by a truck and hammered back into the semblance of a usable shape. He mixed the lizard meat with some lumpy ketchup, scrapings of Worcestershire sauce from an ancient bottle, and the jar of water from the previous episode’s distillation project before leaving it to simmer on a rack above the fire pit.

Wraiths of smoke strayed skyward toward the sunset. Hunk sighed and told himself to pay attention, not that he wasn’t, but despite being unable to see the guy’s face, the rest of him was undeniably attractive. Hunk tried to focus on the content of the show, not DesertRose84’s hands, always clean and well-manicured from what could be gleaned in the close-ups, incongruous with the rest of him, or the confidence of his presentation, his enviable skill, and his uncanny ability to precisely, at least to Hunk’s estimation, eyeball measurements.

He used the dagger for just about everything but also possessed a bent metal spoon whose life experience included at least one harrowing trip down a disposal. He used it to scoop out mounds of ingredients from mismatched margarine tubs. As Hunk watched, the components of DesertRose84’s strange “stroganoff” came together to something that at least looked edible.

“Here, you try it.” The man on the screen handed the completed dish toward the camera.

“No thanks,” the videographer replied. A small hand pushed it away, indicating a decided lack of interest.

“Come on! Please? How is this at all credible if no one but me eats my food?”

“Fine.”

With the spoon, the videographer took a heaping serving. Hunk listened to the sound of a jaw clicking with otherwise quiet chewing and finally the gulp of a swallow.

He held his breath in anticipation. What was the verdict?

DesertRose84 wrung his hands. A dark form that appeared to be a huge, fluffy, blue-black canine with wide, golden eyes trotted up beside him and butted his thigh with its head. Reaching down, he scratched behind the dog’s ears and stroked the soft spot between its eyes.

At least Hunk assumed it was a dog. It might have been a wolf, he didn’t know.

“You pass,” the videographer finally said. “Good texture, warm, but not scalding. I can’t taste the Pop Tart.”

“All right!” DesertRose84 raised his palm, and the dog met it with a paw in a high-five.

_Oh no, that was just too cute._

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” DesertRose84 asked, but went on without waiting for a reply. “Anyway, next week we tackle MREs and CookingWithTheHunk’s holiday dinner scaled for four.”

“Four?”

“Yeah. You, me, the pup here, and a guest.” He turned to the camera and made a two-finger salute from just below his chin. “If you enjoyed the show, don’t forget to subscribe to my channel. See you all next time!”

 

+++

 

Keith stood beside the small corner table, staring at Pidge and her friend on the other side of the coffee shop. The friend in question was a rather large, rather tall man Keith immediately recognized from one of the top-rated cooking channels on YouTube. For a moment, the man, no, CookingWithTheHunk, wearing the same orange bandana around his head he always wore in his show, met Keith’s gaze. Perspiration formed at his temples and the nape of his neck. A lead bar fell into the pit of his stomach. Large liquid brown eyes, dark and limitless as the desert he called home turned his way as Pidge pointed.

They must have been talking about him.

And suddenly, all bets were off. It wasn’t just a celebrity crush anymore; he was smitten, and from Pidge’s pursed lips and the smug nudge of her glasses up her nose, he knew that she knew.

She had probably suspected as much for a long time coming, and in any case she had turned him on to Hunk’s channel, letting him watch every episode from the relative comfort of her living room. She had encouraged it, filmed his very first weak attempt at following the instructions, and encouraged the creation of that monster they now dubbed _Survival Cooking 101_. All the blame was hers, or so Keith told himself, but he had no complaints.

He tore himself quickly away and sat down, stuffing his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched, focusing all his attention on the mug of steaming black coffee on the table before him, wishing he could will himself away and avoid the inevitable embarrassment.

Yet already at the periphery of his vision, Hunk approached the table.

His table.

Pidge didn’t bother stalling; she had likely planned this chance encounter.

He chose not to dwell on it

“Hey!” Hunk extended his hand. “Pidge said we served at the same. I mean, I’m still there, but I’m engineering, so it’s not surprising we haven’t met. The name’s Hunk.”

_I already know that._

Keith grudgingly extracted his hands from his pockets. Sitting up straight, he firmly clasped the proffered palm. “I flew experimental aircraft for a long time out of school, but, uh,” he paused, considering his phrasing, “I resigned a few years ago.” He let go and resisted the urge to scratch the old scar along the curve of his cheek, the discolored burn a testament to the story he didn’t want to tell, much less think about. Realizing how strange he must have sounded, he added, “Guess it wasn’t for me.”

Pidge could have refrained from mentioning the Air Force.

“His name’s Keith,” Pidge said, staring pointedly at his perfectly manicured nails. “What is that all about?”

With a sigh, Keith held them up for her to examine. “Shiro needed a model for his latest vlog. A sponsor sent him nail…stuff.” Turning to Hunk, he explained, “My friend does beauty, but he only has one hand.” He wanted to talk about something else.

“Shiro,” Hunk repeated, still studying Keith’s hands. “Why does that name sound familiar? It’s not very common.”

“He makes videos,” Keith shrugged.

“He’s a beauty influencer,” Pidge corrected.

“Oh, that guy! My housemate’s obsessed with him.” Hunk set his to-go cup down on the table.

_Housemate?_

It probably meant he was unavailable. Besides, even if he were available, with Keith’s luck, he wouldn’t be interested. Best kill all hope up front. With both hands, Keith lifted his mug to his lips and sipped his coffee, still looking at Hunk, trying very hard not to think about whether or not he could fit both his hands around the man’s bicep. Pidge kicked him under the table.

She had a point, he should meet new people, make more friends, and stop staring at Hunk like a piece of meat.

Not that the staring wasn’t mutual. Keith didn’t miss the subtle, full body scan or the way Hunk bit his lip and looked away when he realized he was being watched.

A chill climbed up Keith’s spine, one of hopeful anticipation and anxious nerves. He shivered and tugged his t-shirt down at his back, though it hadn’t ridden up above his waistband.

“Why don’t you join us for a bit. Enjoy that coffee.” Pidge stood up, surveying the room for a free chair. The shop wasn’t empty, but enough people were there she had to stand on tiptoe to see.

“Oh, I really can’t. Sorry! Fresh produce in the car. I just dropped in while waiting on my cuts from the butcher.” Hunk smiled, a radiant glow stretched across his face, pulling a dimple in his left cheek and squeezing crows feet out at the corners of his eyes. “I have a cooking channel.” He winked.

Keith felt the shudder of color draining from his face. Did Hunk know?

_Is he flirting with me?_

“It’s really just a hobby.” Hunk checked his watch. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Keith. Catch ya later, Pidge.”

Keith watched Hunk leave over his shoulder, absently tracing the scar on his face.

Pidge swatted his hand away and rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible, Kogane!”

Hunk had left his cup on the table. Keith grabbed it and pushed his chair back as he stood, the legs skidding across the floor as he rushed to the door, weaving through the patrons. But Hunk was already gone.

 

+++

 

“‘Food brings people together,’ that’s what CookingWithTheHunk always says, so today I have my two best friends with me: my amazingly talented videographer-”

“S’up,” came the small voice from behind the camera.

“And Shiro,” DesertRose84 clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the man bent down to the camera, a wide, goofy grin on his face.

Just as he had been told, SilverFaux, no, Shiro, had one hand. More precisely, the stump of his right arm ended just below his bicep. Undoubtedly, this was the same Shiro that Pidge and Keith knew, the same Shiro Lance obsessed over, and Hunk wondered at the prospect of yet another social media celebrity living in the American southwest.

Hunk had hoped he’d get a glimpse of DesertRose84, but it looked like that would not be in the cards. For whatever reason, he didn’t want his face on camera, which was fine, but strange.

DesertRose84 went on, “also known in the community as SilverFaux. If you’re into makeup and beauty tips, check out his channel.”

“Hello!” Shiro waved, a lock of thick, stunningly silver-white hair fell over his soft brown eyes. He tossed it out of his face with a jerk of his chin.

A soft whine hailed from somewhere off-screen, and the camera panned to the dog.

The animal bounded over to the group and into DesertRose84’s open arms. He caught the beast in a great bear hug and spun the dog around before setting it down. “This good boy says hi, too.”

Something about DesertRose84 struck Hunk as familiar in a way it hadn’t before. He hadn’t forgotten Pidge’s friend from the coffee shop, but he had a hard time reconciling the person he’d met to the unlikely possibility of him fronting a video channel. Besides, Keith was a real person, in a very real world that tended to find guys like Hunk either intimidating or unattractive. There was no in-between. His height and brawn spoke volumes of supposition and preconceived notions. Keith was hot, from his messy ponytail to his soft dark eyes and what looked like nothing less than a rock hard body of tightly coiled tendons and muscle. Hunk would not have minded a second chance meeting.

Alone in his room, he could daydream. Keith’s hands, his voice, speaking in that sonorous tone the way he did, with the slightest rasp.

Almost like-

Hunk shook his head. There was no use fantasizing, he would only end up feeling sad or sorry for himself. Instead, he turned his focus back to the video.

“Today we’re re-creating Hunk’s Holiday Happiness, but first I want to extend a huge thank you to my very first sponsor, the Silver Star Jean Company.” He turned pointedly toward Shiro.

“Ahhhh,” Shiro forced a laugh, “I reached out to them after a Reddit poll blew up over what kind of pants you wear.”

“Mmmhmm. Go on.”

“An overwhelming number of your viewers voted for jeggings over jeans or athletic compression pants.”

“Yes.”

“Meaning? Is that a confirmation?”

“I wear pants, and today I’m trying these.” DesertRose84 hiked up his shirt, exposing a not unexpectedly muscular stomach with a fine black down extending from his navel and disappearing beneath the waistband of the utility jeans sitting over his hips and the trademark belt buckle. The camera panned around him, slowing noticeably at his groin and again at his butt with the trademark dagger sheathed at his back.

“What are you doing?” DesertRose84 asked.

“Appealing to your thirsty audience,” the voice behind the camera replied.

“But I have no ass!”

“You clearly don’t read your comments. Anyway, he’s wearing 30-32 Silver Star 311 utility jeans. How do they fit?”

The camera scrolled up, to a mass of black hair as DesertRose84 peered down. “Seems fine to me. No weird chafing-”

“You _are_ wearing underwear?”

“That’s inappropriate,” DesertRose84 deadpanned.

“Depends who you ask. I think your viewers will like the way they hug your- Hey! Stop it!”

“Oh, your viewers will definitely like that,” Hunk muttered at the screen, trying to ignore the honeyed warmth that slid down his spine and settled between his legs. He willed himself to stillness. He’d never fapped to a YouTuber, and he wasn’t about to start now. Scrolling down, he glanced at the comments, the most recent belonging to someone using the moniker, XSharpshooterX.

DesertRose84 had taken off at top speed, the camera turning wildly and tilting to follow as he threw himself bodily into the dirt. A moment later, he stood up and dusted himself off as he sauntered back, a powder of fine silt rising up like a dust storm and sparkling in the sunlight as it dissipated. He rubbed the sand from his eyes before the camera closed in, again cutting off his face and shattering the illusion.

Hunk paused the video and backed it up, pausing at each frame to see if he could get a decent look at the guy’s face, but it was just a blur of hands and hair.

DesertRose84 stuck up his thumb. “I think we’re good.” A trail of red dripped down his arm from the side of his hand.

“You’re bleeding,” the videographer deadpanned.

“Oh. Shit.”

Hunk paused the video and leaned back, letting out his heavy breath and wiping his forehead. His mouth was a desert and his lips parched. Thirsty audience indeed. He glanced down at the tent in his pants. Yep. He needed a drink. He stood up and stretched, pulling each elbow behind his head, cracked his spine, then made his way to the kitchen.

_What’s the big deal anyway? You don’t even know what he looks like?_

He thought about that.

_Or do you?_

It wasn’t like he could help but look at the man. Not that Hunk was looking, but he was _definitely_ looking.

“You still watching that trash?” Lance asked, canting precariously over the counter. Staring at Hunk’s pants, he grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, and in a somewhat obscene gesture, encircled the fruit with his thumb and index finger, pulling it through from one end to the other, making a sucking sound between his teeth.

Hunk glowered. “Don’t.” He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. “You should stay out of his comments, too, Sharpshooter.” They weren’t particularly kind.

Lance cracked the stem to peel his snack. “He’s just trying to ride your fame to his own popularity.”

“If he were trying to do that, he’d get a decent camera, and I’d get to see his face!”

Shoving half the banana into his mouth at once, Lance bit it off and chewed, struggling to keep his lips closed.

Disgusted, Hunk handed him the roll of paper towels, but he waved it off.

“He’s probably ugly or disfigured.”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “Your bad attitude and mean comments really pull down your brand. You’ve gotta lift others up to lift up yourself.” Gulping down the entire glass, Hunk set it in the sink and left his sulking housemate to return to _Survival Cooking 101_.

The film cut immediately to the kitchen, charming in its severity with a single basin sink, an old icebox, and a camp stove set up on a homemade counter, where the only amenities were a small, old portable radio, an analog wall clock, and a small glass vase which, as far as Hunk could tell, contained a fresh-cut flower. DesertRose84’s hand had been cleaned up and bandaged. Hunk knew from previous episodes that the tap was piped from a deep well and that DesertRose84 didn’t mind the metallic taste or golden brown discoloration. Keith pulled out a box of gloves, pulled one over his injured hand, now bandaged, and proceeded to awkwardly wash the other.

“Let’s see what we’ve got in the pantry to-”

A muffled crunch came from off-screen.

“What’ve you got there, Shiro?”

DesertRose84 disappeared, only to return with a bag in hand that he promptly held up to the camera with a rustle. “‘Freezy Cheezy Space Puffs,’” he read. “Did you forget you’re lactose intolerant?”

“Pffft! No lectures, today,” Shiro answered, lifting a cardboard box onto the counter and promptly reaching inside to pull out four MREs. “Let’s see what we’ve got in here.”

“Oooh!” DesertRose84 took one of the packages and held it up to the audience. “World War II K Ration.” Opening it up with a delighted, “Sweet!” he dumped out several cans, chewing gum, a packet of toilet paper, and a small box of cigarettes. Ripping the smokes open, he took one between his lips and after digging in his pocket for a lighter, managed to light it, inhaling deeply. “Definitely stale,” he mumbled.

It was the most of his face, revealed yet, carefully in profile, highlighting his clean-shaven jaw and angular features, hair over his ear, and cut off just below his nose.

“I thought you quit!” Shiro admonished.

“Apparently not,” the videographer replied.

Shiro reached over to take the cigarette, but DesertRose84 stepped just out of reach, grabbing the remainder of the pack on the counter.

“You’ll get cancer and die.”

Ignoring him, DesertRose84 began emptying the other MREs and sorting ingredients. The dog peered over the edge of the counter, just high enough for the camera to catch its eyes and a long low howl as it stuck its nose in the air.

“Your dog will get cancer and die.”

With a sigh, DesertRose84 snuffed the cigarette in the sink and gently hip-checked the dog glued to his side. “He doesn’t want me to have any fun.”

The dog whined again.

“Oh? You don’t either? I see how it is.”

Hunk watched the remainder of the video entranced. He wasn’t sure seventy-year-old food was safe to eat and found himself hoping no one ended up with food poisoning, but everyone seemed to like it, including the wolf-dog. At least in DesertRose84’s defense, anything that looked or smelled bad got tossed.

He figured he should probably leave a comment, but what should he say?

Almost an hour later, Hunk re-read his words for the twenty-third time and finally clicked submit.

 

 **CookingWithTheHunk** Great job! Hope your hand’s okay. It looks like everyone had fun. Your knife technique is impressive. Looking forward to next week!

 

+++

 

“Check your comments.” Pidge snapped her gum, eyes glued to the video game.

Keith stopped scratching the scab on his hand and raked his hair away from his face, gathering it at the back of his head and securing it with a ponytail elastic from his wrist. “Huh?” He blinked.

“Comments. On your channel.”

“Channel?” he repeated, baffled, not quite sure what Pidge was asking and thinking about the old tube TV in front of them. “Pretty sure it’s on four. Three was all static.”

With a grumble, she rolled her eyes. “ _Survival Cooking 101_ , Mister DesertRose84.”

“Oh!”

On the old television set in Pidge’s living room, he watched her maneuver Luigi onto a moving platform and by some misfortune of the gods slide headlong into an abyss of puffy white clouds as the screen scrolled by.

“Oops,” she said. “There goes our perfect game.”

Keith said nothing but took his phone from his back pocket. The shattered screen of the battered iPhone 4 was held in place with several layers of clear packing tape, which, in combination with separation of the LCD from the glass rendered the app icons barely legible. He couldn’t remember what he’d spilled on it or where he’d dropped it first. He’d had the phone for years, but with the damaged screen, unsupported operating system, and a nearly shot battery, it would soon be time to consider a replacement. He needed to stop being lazy about his in-plan upgrades.

He navigated to his most recent upload and scrolled through the comments.

“Hey! Hunk watched my thing! I think,” he exclaimed.

“Yep.”

Keith considered that. Pidge wanted to make sure he saw, but something from their meeting still ate at him. “Doesn’t he have a housemate?”

“He does, but it’s not like some obscure code for,” she curled her fingers into air-quotes, “‘in a gay relationship.’ Hunk literally has a friend renting a room in his condo.”

That made Keith feel a little better.

“Do you think he recognized me?” He glanced at her, unsure of himself and whether he really did want the attention or not.

“No,” Pidge answered definitively, side-eyeing him. “He’s even more oblivious than you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t answer, instead grabbing his controller to replay the level as Mario.

 

+++

 

“Who the hell is Keith?”

From the room at the opposite end of the luxury condominium, Hunk heard Lance clearly and cringed, unable to ignore the commentary. Loud and getting louder. Quietly, he headed over, carefully pushing in the door to the wreckage of mail-order boxes and packaging strewn across the floor.

“What are you talking about?”

Lance swung his arm across his desk, knocking over a row of plastic tubes and bottles that dominoed over the edge. He groaned, gesturing at the screen.

The video was paused near the beginning. Shiro, of course, grinned into the camera. Hunk could see why Lance was enamored of the man, with his cut and jacked physique, despite the strange way he filmed himself always part way off-screen, so that, presumably, his missing arm would draw no attention.

Hunk immediately recognized the second man, sitting in profile, wearing a charcoal V-neck shirt that clung immodestly to the contour of his chest and shoulder, tight enough to pull at his armpit and reveal the outline of a nipple. Hunk chewed the inside of his cheek.

“That’s Pidge’s friend. I met him briefly when I ran into her at the cafe a few weeks ago.

Lance glared at him.

“Yeah, well what is his mullet doing on a beauty channel?”

“Stop being a jealous troll.” Reaching across his friend, Hunk navigated the cursor to play the video.

“So, if you saw my last video, you know what I look like without makeup. By the comments, I was surprised at how many of you didn’t realize I have this pretty big scar across the bridge of my nose.” With this, Shiro reached out to the tabletop in front of him and took a cosmetic wipe, leaning into the camera. As he cleaned off the concealer, a ridge of darker pigmentation was revealed, carving across his face from one cheek to the other, just below his eyes. “I talked a lot about that last time, so I won’t get into it again, but moving along, earlier this week, I received a tube of Dermaflage in the mail and figured why not give it a try? This product is specifically formulated to fill in scars to help disguise them. There are a couple of different techniques I use to do this, so I invited my best friend over to use as a model and show you some things that work for me.”

 _“Best friend.”_ Where had Hunk heard that before?

After a long moment, Shiro turned to Keith, “You’re going to have to face the camera.”

Nodding slowly, Keith complied.

“Holy Crow!” Wresting the mouse away from Hunk, Lance made the video full-screen and paused it again, staring at Keith’s scar. “I was not expecting that.”

Hunk shrugged. “That’s what he looks like.”

Something nagged at the back of his mind, like he was missing a crucial point, but couldn’t quite place what it was. He hadn’t expected to see Pidge’s friend in a video, but now that he had and was watching, his opinion hadn’t changed.

_Handsome._

Playing the video again, Lance leaned back in his chair.

Shiro continued. “This is a burn. Mine’s a laceration. Keith and I were in the same squadron, back when we were both in the Air Force. We were on a mission and, uh, my plane was shot down. I lost power and couldn’t get out to parachute due to the damage in the cockpit. I had to try my luck landing as best I could, and I hit the ground so hard part of the cockpit folded. Basically, I hit the control panel while still strapped in. The force of the impact broke my helmet and the top edge of my gas mask basically cut into my face-”

“I know some of you are here for the drama, but this is getting too heavy for me.” Keith put his hand up, shaking his head and leaning in conspiratorially with a smirk that broke into a lopsided grin. “Just tell them it was aliens,” he whispered then winked as Shiro landed a friendly punch to his shoulder.

“I’ve known this guy since fourth grade, yo-”

“Pause it,” Hunk said.

“Huh?”

With a huff, Hunk elbowed Lance out of the way, reaching for the keyboard amidst his protests. With a few keystrokes, Hunk had the screen frozen on Keith’s hand, clean, short nails on long nail beds, some old, white scarring across his knuckles and raw, partially picked scabs along the side from where he’d hit the ground testing a new pair of jeans.

“I knew it!”

“Knew what?” Lance wrenched his keyboard back.

Hunk hadn’t, but he could pretend he had. He would have to be blind not to see it now, though. Reaching into a pocket, he searched for for his phone and not finding it, patted the rest of them down in frantic succession. “Have you seen my phone?”

“No.” Lance lifted his shoulders, then bent over to pick up his fallen balms, lotions, and perfumes, lining them up again beneath his wide-screen monitor as Hunk walked out.

Eventually locating his phone on the kitchen counter, where he had earlier been loading up recipes and making grocery lists, Hunk called Pidge.

“Yeeeees?” she drawled.

“Your friend from the cafe,” Hunk blurted out, not quite knowing where he was going with this.

“Which friend?”

“The hot one! I mean, the-” flustered, he breathed heavily into the phone. “Keith.”

“I was going to say, I have a lot of hot friends.”

“Well, I’ve only met Keith. You said he was a pilot, right?”

“I said no such thing.”

Hunk processed this information. Maybe Keith had told him? He couldn’t remember. “But he was a pilot, right?”

“Yes,” she replied, hesitantly. “Why?”

Hunk swallowed, feeling the anticipation slide into his stomach with G-forces threatening to turn his insides into tapioca pudding. He gathered his courage, sure he already knew the answer to what he was about to ask. “What’s his, you know, what’s the word for it, call-something? Callsign?”

“Desert Rose,” she answered smugly.

“Why didn’t you tell me!?” he blurted out.

“Tell you what?”

“That you’ve been filming _Survival Cooking 101_ with _Keith_!”

“You didn’t ask.”

 

+++

 

The first thing Keith noticed upon returning home was the Styrofoam cooler nestled between the generator and the front stoop. The second thing was the dog’s grinning face as he uncurled from his napping spot in the afternoon shade with an orange bandana clutched in his jaws.

Booting down the kickstand, Keith swung his leg over the back of the motorcycle in an elegant dismount for his audience of one.

“What have you got there?” he asked, taking the bandana and scratching deep in the shaggy fur behind the dog’s ears.

The dog did not belong to him. However, since he refused to leave, so did Keith allow him to stay.

He knelt down and hugged his friend. Keith didn’t know who owned him or what his name was. He wasn’t even sure the dog was even a dog at all, with sunset eyes and silken coat that glistened silvery blue in the moonlight but appeared nearly black in the day. Often Keith awoke in the morning with the dog’s warm body nestled against his back when he’d closed up the house the night before, thinking the dog off and away doing whatever it was dogs did alone in the desert for a good time.

“Where did you get this?” Keith turned the smooth fabric over in his hand, then sniffed it: fresh bread and hot tea.

It also smelled of dog.

The dog shuffled to the cooler and threw himself to the ground. Head on his paws, he gave a loud snort, watching his person with a piercing gaze.

Taped to the lid was a note. Keith recognized the hand, small, sloppy letters all compressed like a marching band mid-formation.

 

**We tried to come by while you were home. Sorry. -P**

 

Inside, a pack of dry ice kept a fresh cut of wrapped sirloin chilled with another note, this time in precise block lettering.

 

**This week’s dish. Enjoy! Hunk**

 

An entire dinner for four was packed beneath the meat, parceled into tidy servings and labeled with contents and instructions for reheating on a stove. In a single saucepan.

 

+++

 

“Why did you do that?” Keith inhaled deeply, dragging his palm down his face before exhaling loudly through his lips. He picked up his spoon and X-ed through the heart of milk foam the barista always left in his latte. Staring at it, he shivered. He remembered being cold last time, too and shrugged on the plaid flannel from around his waist, pulling the sleeves down over his hands and leaving only his fingers out to bring the cup to his mouth.

Too sweet. Keith shouldn’t have let Pidge buy his drink; he knew better.

Pidge watched him carefully. She had all day, like the wise old cat waiting out her prey to strike only when the right moment presented itself. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Apparently, it wasn’t time.

Keith quirked a brow, the rest of his face schooled to stoic silence. Two could play at this game.

“Because he asked,” she finally said, “and he wanted to tell you in person how flattered he was. Well, mostly. I’m not sure he didn’t cringe at Shiro’s stale cheese puffs, or the K Rations, or how excited your wolf-”

“Dog,” Keith corrected.

“Keith, that is not a dog.” She pointed to the window where the large blue-black face was flattened up against the glass, tongue plastered to it with puffs of hot breath steaming up from tight nostrils. Bright eyes, round as saucers fixed on them. Even inside the cafe, Keith heard the low cry as the dog pulled away and curled up as small as possible, laying his head on the concrete.

“Look, didn’t you want to meet Hunk?” Pidge asked, hands falling flat against her thighs.

Taking the bandana from his pocket, Keith pulled it through his fist several times. “I did.” Handing it to her, he continued, frowning, “Will you give this back?”

Pidge pushed his hand away. “Give it back yourself.”

Neither of them looked at each other for several long minutes. Keith struggled to suppress his natural combative resentment, knowing he had done this to himself, yet the instigator in this whole thing merely sipped her coffee and like the know-it-all she was, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a middle finger.

“What have you got to lose?” she said flatly. “If you don’t seize the opportunity, you’ll never know what it could bring. A recipe for regret if I ever saw one.” She leaned back on the legs of the chair, knees propped under the table to keep her balance. “Besides, I think you’ve got a pretty good shot. You are one of the most genuine people I have ever met. Who makes an entire YouTube channel devoted to their love of a complete stranger’s YouTube channel?”

Keith didn’t laugh, though he knew he was supposed to.

Pidge must have taken his expression as a misfire. She tried again. “Who breaks into the burning wreckage of another pilot’s downed fighter jet and drags that pilot out mere seconds before it explodes?”

“Did Shiro tell you that?”

She sighed, deflated. “Of course he did. Keith, look, don’t you think it’s about time you started letting people in for a change? Instead of trying to live your life in relative anonymity-”

“Hey!” Hunk said, over Keith’s shoulder as he pulled up a chair.

Keith bristled and collected himself, grunting hello and scooting his chair over to make room. He wondered how long Hunk had been listening.

_Too long._

Pidge gestured to Keith with her spoon. “This guy is a recipient of the-” She saw Keith’s glare and changed her statement, “They gave him a fancy medal for being an awesome badass.”

At that moment, Keith wanted nothing more than to stand up and walk out the door. Pidge did not know when to stop. He continued to glower at her. “I only did what anyone else would have in the same situation.” The mission that had ended his military career and that of his best friend had been destined to failure from the start. They were lucky enough just to be alive.

“May I ask...” Hunk trailed off.

_Shit._

No.

“Aliens,” Keith said with a finality that closed the conversation. He blinked and looked down at his hands, still clutching the bandana with white knuckles. “Here.” Flustered, he thrust it toward Hunk. “He didn’t alarm you or anything? The dog, I mean.” That was the last thing Keith needed, suddenly considering the threat of animal control. Not that the dog was his, but he worried just the same. “Sometimes he just gets excited.”

“Oh,” Hunk took the bandana and smoothed out over one leg, folding the fabric neatly and stuffing it in a pocket “He startled me, that’s all.” He leaned over to look last Keith’s shoulder and out the window.

Twisting around, Keith saw the dog cover his face with his giant paws.

“Was that all right?” Hunk asked.

“Hmm?” Keith tugged at the cuffs of his flannel and turned back around.

“That we came by?”

“Yeah.” Keith paused, realizing he’d forgotten something, “Thank you. The meal was delicious.”

Hunk beamed.

Pidge shifted her gaze from one to the other over the rim of her mug and took a swig of her coffee.

Keith didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it!”

“Well, I did save part of it,” Keith admitted, daring to look at Hunk again. “I was thinking it might be fun to try and recreate it, then taste test, but I’m not quite sure-”

“Let’s do it!” Hunk interrupted, excited. “And afterward, I’ll make a recipe of yours on my show, I mean, if that’s all right, and only if you want to, of course.”

The corner of Keith’s mouth ticked up, genuinely amused but also apprehensive. Picking his latte up with both hand, he slouched back in his chair, pretending, probably badly, to mull it over, all while trying not to fall for the boyish eagerness in Hunk’s face. It was, in fact, too late, but Keith didn’t feel he deserved the attention; he was the weirdo with the parody show, who distilled water from his own pee and ate lizards. Hunk was just out of his league.

Keith set his cup down and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. It didn’t stay. The butterflies in his stomach danced, remembering what Pidge had said. “I’d like that.”

Reaching out, Hunk covered Keith’s hand with his own, their knees bumping under the table, eyes locked.

Keith paled, pulling away, darting glances furtively around to see if anyone had noticed. Pidge snorted loudly, covering her mouth. Hunk set the wayward hand back on his thigh.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Keith swallowed. “No, you’re fine. I mean, it’s fine, uh…” He scratched his head and averted his eyes from Hunk’s leg.

_Solid._

Hunk laughed and reached into his pocket. “Here.” He pulled out his wallet and from it produced a business card. “Do you have a pen?” he asked Pidge.

From one of her many deep pockets, she extracted one out and passed it over.

In perfect block lettering across the top of the card, he wrote his name over his handle followed by his cell number. “My evenings and weekends are pretty open. Still have to keep the day job to pay the bills.”

Keith nodded, taking the card and running his fingers over the gold foil edges of the heavy card stock. “Thanks. Would-”

“How about tomorrow?” Hunk asked. “It’s Saturday.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay!”

 

+++

 

Hunk considered himself an early riser, but the call woke him from his precious sleep. It had taken him longer than usual to get to sleep the previous night, wondering if Keith would actually call, trying not to get his hopes up and pretending he wouldn’t be disappointed if the man just up and disappeared.

Only he knew where Keith lived.

Hunk hadn’t known what to expect, but he could read the signals, and every single one screamed that Keith was, more or less, sweet on him. He found it both endearing and adorable. Leaning in, touching Keith’s hand, Hunk couldn’t help but smell the musky, earthy scent and feel the heat practically radiating off of him.

He thought about that, letting the phone ring several times before picking it up off his nightstand. The number came out of a local exchange.

“Hello?” Hunk croaked. He covered the receiver and coughed. “Hello?” He tried again.

“Hi.”

Keith. The connection, though touchy, was clear enough he could tell that much.

After the tremor of a nervous breath, he added, “Is this a bad time?”

Hunk thought he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest as he rolled over, the bedsprings whining at the rude awakening as he stared at the old digital radio at the corner of his dresser. The red numbers glowed 6:31 in the darkness. Not even moonlight poured in through the blinds. Too early. “Uh, n-no.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I just finished my morning run and thought I’d give you a call and see if you’re still up for-”

“ _Still_ up? It’s not even seven am. On a Saturday.”

“Are you in bed?”

Hunk closed his eyes. How was he going to answer this?

“Look,” Keith went on, “I know it’s early. Reception is spotty out here. I’m at the store. Do you want to come over? I’ll make you breakfast.”

That was enough to smooth over the abrupt awakening. Keith had hit on the surest way to Hunk’s heart. No one had ever offered to make him breakfast as an apology for an early wake-up call. “I didn’t think you shopped for food.”

From the other end of the line, he heard the soft rustle of plastic bags and low voices in groggy conversation.

“Where do you think I get my Pop Tarts?”

Hunk groaned, and Keith laughed, the sound filling his ear like the babble of a clear-running stream.

“You do remember where I live, right?”

“Yeah,” Hunk said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Great!”

Keith immediately hung up, having packed so much genuine excitement into that one little word, Hunk thought his heart might burst from the effusion of warmth that coursed through him. Tossing the phone aside, he smacked his palms against his cheeks.

Unbelievable.

His crush had just invited him to a home-cooked breakfast. He needed to get out of bed, but before he did that, he found his phone again and added Keith to his contacts.

Half an hour later and Keith stood waiting for him when he pulled up in front of the small abode. It was the first good in person look Hunk had gotten of Keith not hunched over a coffee shop table. He rose like a pillar rising from the wasteland, lean but sturdy, a being forged in fire and seemingly impervious to the elements. A dew of sweat glistened over his shoulders, and the orange flame of the rising sun reflected gold off his hair, tied back from his face in a messy ponytail with several elastic headbands holding his shaggy fringe out of his eyes.

Hunk tore his gaze away, feeling suddenly self-conscious, overdressed in khaki cargo pants and a polo. He’d meant to do laundry that morning, but it hadn’t happened with the rush to get out of the house. Keith wore black running shorts, perhaps a little too short, with a red tank top cut just a little too deep.

_Deep? For whom?_

Hunk forced himself to breathe, to raise his hand to Keith’s in greeting, remembering the conversation he’d had with Pidge when he’d decided to bring Keith the meal he’d cooked on his most recent show.

 

_“It’s flirting, right? He’s making these videos and flirting with me, right?”_

_She leveled him with a gaze that cut to the core of the matter at hand. “What do you think?”_

 

“Hey!” he called, rolling down the window.

The corner of Keith’s mouth pulled up, the skin at the edge of the scar puckering across his cheek. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he said, hands on his hips, but unable to mask the hint of uncertainty. “I’m glad you did.”

Hunk exited the car with bags of his own from the store. “Just wanted to pick up a few things before I came. I tried to call, but-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Keith gestured for him to follow, turning toward the house. “How do you like your eggs?”

 

+++

 

“You really live here?” Hunk looked around the simple one-room dwelling.

“I really live here,” Keith echoed, following Hunk’s gaze from his unmade futon to the cinder block and wooden plank coffee table, to the dresser scrounged from a neighborhood roadside before the morning trash collection, to the rolling clothes rack containing only his uniform, pressed and bagged, then finally falling on the spray of flowers in a drinking glass between them. Hunk had brought those, blossoms ranging from deep yellow to poppy red and accented with baby’s breath.

He cut into the yoke of his fried egg, letting its yellow ichor bleed slowly out before mopping it up with a slice of toast. “Do you want some more?” There’s still plenty.”

Hunk crunched a bite of bacon, chewed, then swallowed. “Oh! No, thank you.”

From seemingly nowhere, the dog whimpered and picked his head up above the level of the small cafe-style table, eyeing their plates, and setting his chin just over the edge, raising his saddest puppy brows at Keith.

Frowning but unable to resist, he placed his plate on the floor for his companion. “What else can I do when he looks at me like that?”

Palms flat against the tabletop, Keith pushed himself to his feet and began cleaning up.

“What’s his name?” Hunk asked as the blue-gray canine snuffled around his master’s plate, licking it clean.

Keith lifted his shoulders and hummed. “No idea. I’m sure he’ll tell me when he feels up to it.

Hunk let out a snort of mirth. “But he’s a dog. You should name your dog.”

“He’s very smart. Besides, I don’t own him. He just lives here. I mean, he just showed up one day and hasn’t left.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Shiro had taken to calling the dog Kosmo, and Pidge had agreed that it was better than having no name at all, Hunk became the first person to accept Keith’s viewpoint on the matter. He appreciated it.

Finished with Keith’s plate, the dog set his chin in Hunk’s lap and peered up at him with pleading eyes.

“You know, I didn’t see him come in.”

“You won’t,” Keith replied, stacking his dishes in the sink. “And you,” he addressed the dog, “stop begging!”

 

+++

 

Pidge scanned the upload bar from her phone as the video finished the transfer. At her side, her companions watched, Keith noshing on something from a tub of Hunk’s leftovers and Hunk chowing down on whatever weird dish Keith had just made.

Everything Keith made was weird and not all of it was edible.

“I can’t believe you just let me film your face.” She nudged Keith with a playful but sharp elbow.

“I bet it makes it easier on you though,” Hunk said, covering his full mouth. He swallowed. “I mean, no offense, Keith, but you’re short.”

“Am not!” came the emphatic reply. “I’m average height.”

“You will never be five-nine, just like I’ll never make five-oh,” Pidge added.

“How tall are you anyway, Hunk?” Keith asked as Pidge played the video, making the first editorial cuts.

“Six-three.” Reaching around Pidge’s shoulders, Hunk wedged an arm between her and Keith to point at the screen. “Keep that part.”

She paused, casually lifting his arm over her head and dropping it. Having to deal with her two male friends’ awkward attraction all afternoon and their inability to navigate it proved exhausting. Pausing the segment, she enlarged the image. Hunk and Keith leaned forehead to forehead, grinning wide. Keith squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that tears formed at the corners. “Day-um. Keith, I didn’t know you had so many teeth. When did you learn to smile?”

“Shut up.”

Pidge raised her brows but left that in the video as requested. It was getting late, and while no one had said anything yet, she knew she ought to get going. She yawned and started packing her things. “I can finish this later. I’ll post it up next week as usual.”

Standing, she dusted herself off while Keith folded the tripod and helped pick up.

“Thanks, Pidge.”

She didn’t want to leave unless she knew they’d actually talk to each other. Looking out to the horizon, an idea seeded itself in her mind. “Why don’t you take Hunk out to the testing grounds.”

“Testing grounds?” Hunk looked from Pidge to Keith.

Keith licked his lips. “Yeah. You can see the experimental aircraft taking off from the base. I, uh, found a path that isn’t covered by the cameras. It’ll be dark soon. Do you want to come, Pidge or are you leaving?”

It took all of her willpower to not smack her palm against her forehead. “Nah. I’m heading out.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. The two of you should go,” and before anyone could protest, she added, “Alone.”

 

+++

 

Bounding ahead, the dog crested the hill with Keith scrabbling up behind. At least it wasn’t too hot. They had just passed the autumn rains dropping the highs from the mid-80s into the 70s. Out here, the world was calm and quiet, the only sounds the crunching of their footsteps and the rumble of distant engines.

Stopping, Keith turned and after wiping his forehead on his shoulder, extended a hand. “You good?”

Hunk saw him clearly in the twilight, the absence of light-pollution allowing his sight to adjust to the evening blue. After a moment’s hesitation, he took Keith’s hand. “Yeah, thanks.”

Keith didn’t let go, even after they reached the top. In the distance, red lights marked the runways. An aircraft Hunk didn’t recognize silently zipped along the track and with a burst of fire and thrust, blazed off into the sky.

“Are you sure we can be here?”

“Did you see a chain-link fence? Barbed wire? Armed guards?” Keith’s sarcasm was playful, but a note of something anxious had crept back into his tone.

Hunk shook his head.

“We’re fine.” Keith reached down to pat the dog’s shoulder. He led them over the rise of an outcropping and sat, pulling Hunk down with him.

“Did you fly stuff like this?” Hunk finally asked.

Keith nodded, squeezing Hunk’s hand and resting it on his thigh, fingers laced together. “Still do from time to time. Mostly when I need the cash, to be honest.” He stared out into the distance as the lights of the craft darted in a zigzag out across the landscape, a melancholic sadness in his eyes as he watched.

“So you really did mean aliens,” Hunk mused.

“Something like that. You’re engineering, right?” Keith asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah. They keep us all on need-to-know. Separate projects and whatnot. Parcel things up so no one person knows the whole of any one assignment.”

“Just enough information to do your job, right? And what happens when you don’t even get that? I’d wanted to fly since I was a kid. The service was the only place that’d take me, that’s why I joined. I earned my commission by working hard, persevering, and keeping my mouth shut. I can’t talk about the things I had to do, and neither will my superiors. It’s like, you’re just a pawn, and at the end of it, if you’re lucky enough to survive, you’re still just that. A pawn.”

Afraid to interrupt, Hunk listened, siding just a little bit closer.

“I think that’s why I like it out here. Just like this. Look at _them_. Who knows what they’re up against. Most of the time it’s just a test run, but not always. You ever fly a commercial jet over these parts, and you’ll know. The craft out tonight-” Keith snapped his head toward a new set of lights taxiing to the runway and without a sound burst forward, taking off into the night. “Check the speed on that!” He pointed excitedly. “Isn’t it amazing?”

The aircraft pulled abruptly up in a path perpendicular to the ground.

“I worked on that!” Hunk exclaimed, standing as if doing so would give him a better view and pulling Keith up with him. “Gravitational wave propulsion. Never did get to see it applied until now.”

They watched the other red lights join it, a squadron of five rising up in a V formation before blinking away.

Hunk rubbed his eyes. At their feet, the dog snuffled before melding into the shadows and disappearing from view.

“Look at us.” Keith took Hunk’s other hand, running his thumbs over the smooth skin as he stepped in, not afraid to breach the boundary of personal space, judging, gauging with his large, indigo-gray eyes and posing the unspoken question.

Two souls, a little lost finding solace in the quietude of the desert night and just maybe one another.

_“You don’t mind, do you?”_

Hunk bent down, slipping a hand away to run the pads of his fingers over soft, thick brows. Keith leaned into the touch.

Standing there, bathed in starlight, they came together in a crush of pliant lips and impatient touch. A stirring in Hunk’s chest traveled slowly, burning a path down his throat and settling in his stomach.

_Not at all, Keith. Not at all._


End file.
